You think I’ll allow your 9-to-5 poverty lifestyle to affect me? Did you just slap me? And I will slap you again. Joy like a river flowing in my soul. Papa God, you too good. Now, this is Madam Olisa, the downstairs neighbor. She had lived in this compound for 11 years. 11 years of making it work.
The school runs, the early mornings, the long evenings, the market trips on Saturday, the church on Sunday. She was the kind of woman who ironed her children’s uniforms the night before and set her alarm for 5:15 a.m. Even though she never actually needed it because her body had long memorized the schedule. She had two children, one in secondary school and one in primary, and a job at a federal government Ministry of Information that required her to be seated before 7:30 or answer to a boss who kept a register.
Her car was a silver Volkswagen Beetle, 1990 model with a small dent on the rear bumper from a bus conductor who had no conscience and even less insurance. She loved that car. It was her freedom, her clock, her lifeline. And upstairs, yes, lived Cynthia. Nobody in the compound knew her surname. Driver, it’s okay.
Let’s offload from here, please. Ah, a new tenant has come, oh. With all these properties, is she planning to spend her eternity in this apartment? She had moved ago arriving on a Saturday afternoon with a heavy loaded pickup that seems like forever is the deal and more suitcases than anyone thought was reasonable for one person.
She was 24, maybe 25. The kind of young lady who existed in a world that ran on a completely different time zone from the rest of Lagos. Her currency was followers. Her office was TikTok, Instagram, and Twitter, and Snapchat. Her work hours are not dictatable. Her car was a black Elantra, clean and perfumed with pink fuzzy dice hanging from the rearview mirror and a sticker on the back windscreen that read influencers/content creators move differently.
Cynthia! The shout came at exactly 6:23 a.m. on a Monday morning in March. Madam Olisa stood at the bottom of the staircase in her work skirt and blouse. Her handbag already on her shoulder. Her children hovering behind her with their school bags like two small satellites. She stared at the black Elantra parked directly directly behind her Volkswagen Beetle.
Not slightly, not at an angle, directly, like she used a ruler. Cynthia, I beg come down and move your car. I don’t have the whole day. Silence from upstairs. The kind of thick sleeping silence that only belongs to someone who went to bed at 2:00 in the morning. Madam Olisa hissed long and sharp. The sound of a woman rationing her patience.
She pressed the staircase doorbell once, twice, a third time with her whole thumb. Mommy, I think you should try calling her phone. Calling her phone? Am I her secretary? Is it my job to call her? She blocked my car. Let her come down here. But she called anyway because time was not her friend.
The phone rang six times before a voice answered, rough with sleep, confused, slightly irritated. Hello? Cynthia, it is Madam Olisa. Come and move your car. No, I’m running late. A pause. Okay, give me 2 minutes. 2 minutes? 2 minutes, okay. I have been standing here for But the line was already dead. Madam Olisa pulled the phone from her ear and looked at it the way one looks at something that has personally offended them.
14 minutes. 14. Cynthia appeared at the top of the staircase, a silk bonnet on her head, an oversized T-shirt, and slippers that slapped against the steps as she descended. “Good morning,” she murmured, not entirely to anyone. She got into the Elantra, reversed 3 ft, and and waved vaguely as if to say, “There, done.
” Then she padded back upstairs without another word. Madam Olisa bundled her children into the Volkswagen Beetle, reversed out, and drove out of that compound with the energy of a woman who had already fought one battle before the day had even properly started. This was not a one-time thing. This was every day. Monday through Friday, sometimes Saturday when Madam Olisa had market or church committee meetings.
The car, the shout, the call, a 14, sometimes 18, once a catastrophic 22 minutes of waiting. By the third week, Madam Olisa had tried everything reasonable. She had asked Cynthia directly, politely the first time, if she could please not park behind her. Cynthia had smiled and said, “Of course,” and then done it again that same night.
She had even tried leaving a note on Cynthia’s windscreen. Cynthia saw it, photographed it for her Instagram stories with the caption, “Compound drama loading. Hehehe.” And received 4,612 likes and 1,287 comments. The compound had no official parking arrangement. The landlord, Alhaji Fasola, lived in Abuja and managed everything through a property agent who responded to messages with the energy of a man who had already retired emotionally.
There was no lease clause about parking. There was no line painted on the ground. There was only the unwritten social contract of common sense. And Cynthia, it appeared, had never signed that particular document. But do you know the funny part? After every morning drama that seems like a compulsory morning meditation, Cynthia will set up her ring light to update her followers how it went between herself and Madam Olisa.
My babies, this is really exhausting. This woman is unwell. I mean, totally unwell. 6:00 in the morning. 6:00. She’s outside shouting my name like I’m her house girl. Like, “Bestie, you chose to have children. You chose that schedule. Why is that my fault?” The comments were flying. OMG, not the neighbor again. Score.
She sounds exhausting. She said, “I am not your alarm clock.” LMAO, this is every morning. Cynthia laughed at something in the comments, shaking her head. Every single morning. And the way she shouts, oh my god. Even my ring light shook. I genuinely think she wakes up angry. Like some people are just They just wake up and choose chaos and I refuse to absorb that energy. I really do.
More comments. More laughing. You need to move, bestie. My woman king, please set an alarm and move the car before she wakes up. She sounds like my auntie. Lol. Then on a Thursday afternoon, Madam Olisa was at her desk in the Ministry eating her rice and stew from a flask and talking to her colleague, Mrs. Bankole.
Then Mrs. Bankole suddenly stopped mid-sentence, busted into laughter that left Madam Olisa confused. Mrs. Bankole, sometimes you dey laugh like village woman, oh. Wetin be that? Madam Olisa, na TikTok I dey watch you. Na this thing dey finish my data now. Since Welbie see put this TikTok for my phone, I no dey miss trending gist, oh.
Oya now, make I follow watch small. On the screen was a TikTok livestream. Cynthia in her room, her bonnet pushed back, her face moisturized and glowing in that careful, deliberate way that existed only for cameras. She was talking to the comment section. Madam Olisa was very still. “The entitlement, by the way,” Cynthia added, “is generational.
Like, I feel like older women in Nigeria, specifically, think the world should pause for them. Which, no, love. The world does not pause. Mostly the single mothers, lest I forget. This crazy neighbor claims her husband is based abroad. I know her type, guy. She’s a single mother, single to stupor.
Her man probably left her due to her sour attitude.” The comment section erupted. Madam Olisa put the phone down on the desk. She picked up her fork. She set the fork down again. She pressed both palms flat against the desk, looked at the window, and said nothing for a very long time. Mrs. Bankole leaned closer and asked in a low tone, “Madam Olisa, are you all right?” “She called me a crazy neighbor on the internet with thousands of people watching her?” “Madam Olisa, what do you mean?” “700 comments? They all feel she is right, really? And she even shamed me
for being a single mother?” “Madam Olisa, make me understand. What’s going on?” Madam Olisa stood up. She capped her flask. She straightened her blouse. She picked up her phone and for the first time stretched it further to Mrs. Bankole. “Put this TikTok in my phone.” “Ah, Madam Olisa, you are getting me worried, oh.” “Mrs.
Bankole, that girl, Cynthia, is my upstairs neighbor. I’m the crazy neighbor she’s talking about.” “Ah, children nowadays. That’s so rude of her. She doesn’t know you are old enough to be her mother.” Mrs. Bankole collected the phone. She started by installing the app. Then an account was created. Boom.
Cynthia’s TikTok handle was found. The handle was right there at CindyVibesOnly. 79,000 followers. A highlight reel of outfits, makeup tutorials, restaurant reviews, and right there at the top of the page, pinned, a video titled “Life in a Lagos Compound featuring my unhinged neighbor. Story time. Crying emoji. Car emoji.” 312,000 views in under 4 hours.
Madam Olisa stared at that number for a long time. Then she put her phone in her bag, told Mrs. Bankole she was stepping out for air, and walked to the window at the end of the corridor where she stood very quietly looking out at the Lagos skyline, the rooftops, the water tanks, the tangle of wires, the haze of afternoon heat, while something cold and purposeful settled into the space behind her eyes.
She had built her life around routine, discipline, and the simple dignity of a woman who asked for nothing she had not earned. She worked before the sun. She ironed small uniforms. She packed lunches. She sat in traffic. She managed her home and her children and her car and her 11 years on Adeyinka Street with the quiet competence of a woman who simply handled things.
And somewhere upstairs, in a room full of ring lights and pink fuzzy dice, a 24-year-old was using her life as entertainment. She took a long breath. Let it out slowly. 312,000 people saw it. She went back to the office. “Mrs. Bankole, what do you think I should do?” she asked quietly. “She has been doing it for weeks,” Madam Olisa said.
“Her followers are calling me names. Strangers on the internet, Bankole. People I have never met in my life are calling me crazy. Am I really crazy?” Mm. “Madam Olisa, leave her for me alone. I will say you cannot fight her on social media. That is her territory. She will always win there. Her followers will drag you, and even if you are right, you look like the aggressor, and that’s likely to push you into depression.
” “Mrs. Bankole, I’m already depressed seeing this alone. So, I should just sit down and suffer?” “No.” Mrs. Bankole leaned forward. “You are going to outsmart her quietly.” Madam Olisa narrowed her eyes. “Talk.” Mrs. Bankole began explaining. Slowly, like someone laying out tiles, the plan was almost elegant in its simplicity.
A slow smile spread across Madam Olisa’s face. The smile of a woman who has been patient for too long and has just found something sharp to hold. “You are a genius. You suppose know that one since, na?” Mrs. Bankole added, feeling excited. Madam Olisa began the strategy immediately. Monday was almost easy.
She got home by half past five, parked outside the compound’s fence, went inside and made her egusi soup with the calm of someone who had nothing to prove. She even watched one episode of her favorite series. 11:22. Cynthia’s headlights swept across the ceiling. Madam Olisa heard the engine. She heard the gate.
She put on her slippers, wrapped her robe around her, went outside, moved her car inside, parked neatly behind Cynthia’s, and came back up. She slept soundly. Tuesday was fine, too. Wednesday, she was tired from a long meeting and almost didn’t hear Cynthia come in. She jolted awake at 11:40, fumbled for her keys, and shuffled outside half asleep, but she managed.
By the second week, it was starting to wear on her. Thursday night, Cynthia didn’t come home until almost midnight. Madam Olisa sat on the edge of her bed in the dark, phone in hand, refusing to sleep because she was afraid she’d miss the sound of the car. Her eyes were burning.
She had a budget presentation at 8:00 the next morning. She kept thinking, “Just come home. Just come home. Just come home.” The headlight came at 12:43. She moved the car. She came back inside. Meanwhile, upstairs, Cynthia was very much awake. She had settled into her routine of updating her followers the way some people updated their diaries.
Except her diary had 63,000 followers and a comment section. “Okay, so update for my people,” she said into her phone, lying across her bed, ring lights casting her in a warm amber glow. “My crazy neighbor downstairs, yeah, Mama Parking Lot. Things have been very quiet lately, oh, like suspiciously quiet. She’s not knocking. She’s not calling.
I’m actually a little worried.” She laughed, covering her mouth. “Maybe she’s finally accepted her fate. I don’t know. But listen, my car is parked fine. I’m sleeping fine. Life is fine. God is good.” Her followers were delighted. “Finally found her say,” another commented. “Mama Parking Lot has entered her healing era.” Skull emoji.
“Don’t trust the quiet one, sis.” Cynthia laughed at the comments, replied to a few, and went to sleep without a single suspicion in the world. The third week was when the cracks began to show. It was a Friday. Madam Olisa was already exhausted from the week, and she had gone to sleep by 9:30 without meaning to.
She had told herself she was just resting her eyes, but sleep, when it comes for a tired woman, does not negotiate. She woke up at 2:17 in the morning with her mouth dry and the sudden horrible realization that she had not moved her car. She scrambled up, checked the compound through the window. Cynthia’s car was inside.
Hers was still outside. She grabbed her keys and went downstairs, heart doing something uncomfortable in her chest. Outside, the street was dark and mostly empty. Her car was still there, untouched, but the sight of it alone, sitting outside in the Lagos night, made something tighten in her stomach. What if someone had taken it? What if someone had broken the side mirror? What if She drove it in with trembling hands and locked everything twice before coming back inside.
This was the third time she had forgotten. She called Mrs. Bankole on Saturday morning. “I’m tired,” she said simply. “How long has it been?” Mrs. Bankole asked. “Three weeks.” A pause. “Is it working?” “Yes, I leave every morning without any problem.” “Then it’s working.” “Mrs. Bankole, my forehead hurts. I wake up every night.
Sometimes midnight. Sometimes 1:00 a.m. Sometimes almost 2:00 a.m. I’m not sleeping. I had a headache for 4 days this week. I forgot the car outside twice, and by the grace of God, it was still there. But what if” She stopped, exhaled. “I didn’t come to Lagos to be guarding my car on the street at 1:00 a.m.
because of my neighbor upstairs.” Mrs. Bankole was quiet for a moment. “Then, so what are you thinking?” Madam Olisa didn’t answer immediately. She looked out the window at the compound below, at the two cars sitting side by side, Cynthia’s in front, hers behind, everything looking perfectly normal in the Saturday morning.
A thought had been forming in her mind for 3 days now. She hadn’t said it out loud yet. She wasn’t entirely sure she was ready to. “Don’t worry, Mrs. Bankole. I will take care of everything from here.” “Ah, Madam Olisa, shall be careful, oh, because I know you, oh,” Mrs. Bankole said. “Don’t worry. I will be fine, my dear. Bye.
I want to rush to the market.” The weekend was different. Madam Olisa hummed while cooking. Actually hummed a tune from the choir at her church, something about triumph and faith. At work on Monday, Madam Bankole noticed immediately. “What is this? What happened over the weekend?” Mrs. Bankole leaned against her desk, studying her like a detective. “Patience, Mrs.
Bankole. Patience,” she said to her happily. That Monday evening, Madam Olisa parked outside the compound at 5:15. She went inside, cooked dinner. By 10:00, they were asleep. She sat by the window with a cup of tea, watching the street. At 11:16, Cynthia’s headlights swept across the compound. The car pulled in.
Madam Olisa set down her cup. She picked up her keys, went outside, and parked her car directly behind Cynthia’s. Tight. Deliberate. Then she went back inside and slept peacefully. Tuesday morning at 6:00 a.m., Madam Olisa woke her children, got them ready for school, and dressed herself in her favorite work clothes.
She combed her hair happily while watching herself in the mirror. By 7:10, they were already heading to the junction to join a public transport. She did not get in her car. Her car remained in the compound, blocking Cynthia completely. Cynthia woke up at noon with plans to step out as usual. She came downstairs, got to her car, and stopped.
Madam Olisa’s car was right there, bumper to bumper. There was no way out. For a moment, Cynthia just stood there, hands on her hips. Then she laughed. Actually laughed. Pulled out her phone and started recording. “Okay, people, Mama Parking Lot has officially lost it,” she announced to her followers, panning the camera at the two cars.
“I guess we need to raise funds for her. I mean, she can’t even afford to put fuel in her car.” She shook her head, grinning at the camera. “Anyways, that’s her business.” She snapped her fingers, then ordered a ride and stepped out. But on Wednesday, her car was still blocked. And Thursday.
By Friday morning at 6:00 a.m., Cynthia came downstairs quickly to tell Madam Olisa to move her car before leaving for work. She stormed up to Madam Olisa’s door and knocked hard. Madam Olisa opened it, perfectly calm, almost serene. “Yes, Cynthia?” “Madam Olisa, you need to move your car before leaving for work, since you no longer drive to work.
” “Oh, about that. I’m sorry. I completely forgot it was there. I will move it away. Let me finish with what I’m doing.” Upon hearing this, Cynthia was reassured, and so she went upstairs. Mm. But Madam Olisa only laughed behind her curtain. She, alongside her children, left again, still leaving the car at the spot.
By afternoon, Cynthia couldn’t believe that Madam Olisa didn’t move the car again. With a frustrated look and tone, she picked up her phone and complained to the caretaker. “Madam Olisa, the girl upstairs says you’re deliberately blocking her car,” the caretaker said, sounding uncomfortable. “Ah, oh, caretaker, I’m so sorry, oh.
My car has been giving me problems recently. I will call my mechanic this evening to come around, okay? I promise I will.” The caretaker hung up, somewhat satisfied, and even called back to give Cynthia feedback with full assurance. Mm. My dear, the mechanic didn’t come that evening, oh. Then came the next day. Madam Olisa was outside pretending to examine her car bonnet, then all of a sudden, her mechanic arrived.
Madam Olisa leaned over and whispered to him, “Kole, I hope you still remember what I asked you to do.” Kole nodded with a smile that almost turned to laughter. With that, Madam Olisa quickly rushed inside to continue her cooking. Then, Kole bent over the engine, carefully removed the front left tire. “Madam Olisa, this tire needs to be replaced,” he said loudly for anyone listening.
“It’s completely bad and might result in an accident.” “Ah!” Madam Olisa shouted, both hands on her head. “Where will I see money to buy a new tire when the government is still owing us for 3 months?” He handed the tire to Madam Olisa, packed his tools, and left. The next morning, Cynthia came out and shouted, “Red-handed! Madam Olisa, oh, you think I don’t know? You obviously don’t have money to repair your spoiled car and I don’t care.
I just need you to remove this car from my way, else I will use a towing van to the bush. >> don’t want me to lose my anger from where I hang it, tow this thing you call a car out of my way because I’m going out with my car today.” “Cynthia, do you realize I’m old enough to be your mother?” “Mother my foot! You think I will allow your 9-to-5 poverty lifestyle to affect me?” “How dare you call ME POVERTY?” “DID YOU JUST SLAP ME?” “And I will slap you again.
” Madam Olisa responded angrily and walked away. Her phone came out immediately. She called the caretaker. “This woman’s car is still blocking me, oh. I cannot go anywhere. Look at this. I confronted her peacefully this morning to please move her car and the next thing I heard was a loud slap. She slapped me. This woman slapped me, oh.
She hung up even without listening to the caretaker’s response. Nonsense.” That night, she went live. “Guys, this woman has no money, no sense, and now she’s using a broken car as a weapon. But, you know what? That car will be moved by me.” The comments poured in. Some agreed with her, but some were asking questions now. “Who is this woman anyway? Why is she so pressed about your car? Did you do something to her first?” Cynthia didn’t answer those questions.
That next day in the office, Mrs. Bankole said to Madam Olisa, “Hm. Madam Olisa, I think you need to tell your own story. Right now, she’s winning the narrative. You are the villain. But, if people knew what she’s been doing, the mocking, the insults, and the livestreams, all of it, they would see this differently.” “How?” Mrs. Bankole smiled.
“Let’s do a video and tag her. Yes, this will be for your own good, oh.” “Mrs. Bankole, how is it for my own good now?” “Don’t worry. Let’s just do it. And we have to start by buying two ring lights, oh.” That Saturday, they bought ring lights from Ikeja. Madam Olisa sat in her living room with the light positioned carefully, her phone propped on a small stand.
Mrs. Bankole stood to the side, giving her a thumbs-up. Madam Olisa took a breath and pressed record. “Good evening,” she said, her voice calm and clear. “My name is Madam Olisa. I live in a compound in Lagos. Many of you might have heard about the crazy neighbor. Yes? The crazy neighbor downstairs, that’s me. And I’m here to share my story.
I’m not a rich woman,” she said quietly. “I’m a widow, a civil servant with almost no salary, and a woman pushing a small business. My husband passed away 6 years ago and I have been raising my children alone. I work hard, I mind my business, but this girl decided I was entertainment for her followers. And when I tried to solve it quietly, she escalated it.
So, I did what I had to do.” She spoke for 11 minutes. She talked about the mocking, the livestreams, the humiliation of being laughed at by strangers, and shame for being a struggling single mother. She explained the parking strategy, the sleepless nights, the fear. She explained the broken car not as a petty revenge, but as a last resort from someone who was exhausted.
She tagged Cynthia’s account. She posted it. Within 3 hours, it had been shared 200 times. The comments were no longer divided. “Oh my god, she’s a widow. This is heartbreaking. Cynthia is bullying an elderly woman on the internet. I unfollowed Cynthia. This is disgusting. Madam Olisa, we support you. What’s your business? We’ll patronize.
” That last comment made Mrs. Bankole look up from her phone. She caught Madam Olisa’s eye. “Your fascinators,” Mrs. Bankole said. “Tell them about your fascinators.” Madam Olisa hesitated for just a moment. Then, she created a Facebook page. She posted pictures of the beautiful headpieces she made, the intricate beadwork, the elegant designs.
She posted a TikTok showing her hands working on a piece, the camera close enough to see every detail. By Sunday morning, she had 16,000 followers on Facebook and 27,000 on TikTok. By Monday, she had received massive orders. By Wednesday, she couldn’t believe her life was changing. People weren’t just buying her fascinators, they were buying her story.
They were rooting for her. In the comments, they asked about her children, they offered advice, they shared their own struggles as single mothers. Madam Olisa was no longer just the woman downstairs being blocked in the compound. She was a survivor, a businesswoman, a mother, a real person with a real life. And Cynthia’s followers were quietly unsubscribing.
The next morning, while still trying to control others, a knock came in and it was Cynthia. She apologized and Madam Olisa gladly accepted. Then, she picked up her phone, called her mechanic to come fix the tire. After that, she moved her car. Since that day, Cynthia always moves her car without waiting for Madam Olisa to call on her.
And Madam Olisa became an influencer, marketer, and family lifestyle content creator. Moral lesson: Never use someone else’s struggle for entertainment. Respect, empathy, and consideration go a long way because what seems funny to you may be someone else’s daily pain. Thank you for listening and watching Tales by Excess Joy. Don’t forget to like, comment, share, and follow for more amazing stories.
